


It's a Wash

by thecarlysutra



Category: Thunderheart
Genre: Bathtub Sex, Chores, Connecting to one's heritage, Hand Jobs, Laundry, M/M, The damn dog has fleas, Tribal land, WTF there is an uninvited animal in the bathroom, Walter's continuing battle with Jimmy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: The life and times of Walter Crow Horse’s bathtub.<br/>AUTHOR’S NOTES: Prompts from <a href="http://mundane-bingo.dreamwidth.org/">Mundane Bingo</a>, which I am not so much playing as looting: <i>bathing</i>, <i>killing the big scary bug that is in the bathroom when you're trying to take a shower</i>, <i>putting off laundry so long all you have left is old/ill-fitting/fancy</i>, <i>giving the very smelly dog a bath</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Wash

  
Like most things on a reservation, Walter Crow Horse’s bloodline was a matter of public knowledge. Full blood along one tribal line was getting rarer and rarer, and there wasn’t a single member of the tribal council willing to bring Walter’s lineage into dispute, lest they be laughed down. When Walter came back from college in the city and applied for tribal land, the tribal council expedited his request; he had good blood, but more than that, he was a good kid and he’d gone to college—he had _come back_ from college, which was happening less and less.

What became Walter’s land had last belonged to Gramma Blue Horse, but her children had moved off to _Wasi’chu_ cities years ago, leaving her the last of her blood on the rez. When she died, her blood didn’t even come back to bury her, so the tribal council rounded up some volunteers to perform the ceremony, and afterwards they boxed up Gramma Blue Horse’s things and cleaned up the little house so that Walter could move in. They also repaired some shorts in the electrical system, and updated the plumbing a little. And they put in a few new fixtures—a garbage disposal in the kitchen, and a new bathtub, since the old one was cracked in the foundation, and likely hadn’t been used since Mr. Blue Horse had died in the Second World War, besides, abandoned in favor of the same metal washtub where Gramma Blue Horse had done her laundry.

A few of Walter’s friends and cousins helped him move his life full of boxes, still packed from university, into his house. The actual moving only took a few hours, but his house was full late into the night—just as it should be—since they’d had the foresight to move in a few cases of beer, as well.

It was technically the next morning when Walter closed the door for the last time on the weaving, laughing shadows of members of his housewarming party. He walked slowly through his house—it was tribal land, really, but it was his until he died, which was as long as he needed it—memorizing the dimensions, listening to the sound of his boots echoing off the hardwood. He touched the walls, letting them whisper the secrets of their history through his fingertips. He touched the cool windowpanes, separating him from the chill of the desert night, and the bent swan’s necks of the faucets that would bring him most every drink of water he would have for the rest of his life. He went into the bathroom, and sat on the ledge of the bathtub, the brand new porcelain smooth as glass. Every morning for the rest of his life, he would stand here and let the water rush over him and get ready for the coming day.

For as long as he could remember, Walter had known Grampa Reaches. And for as long as he could remember, he had marveled over Grampa’s visions, and waited for one of his own. It was a desire he had always had, and it was not about power, or even about seeing the future: what was valuable to a vision was orientation: knowing more about yourself, about where you were going and where you had been.

Walter had never had a vision, and he was not, he knew, having one now. But in this moment, the path of his future rolling out before him, Walter felt his internal compass align to true north.

***

Ray was sure he had made the right decision returning to the rez with Walter. Logically, it was completely insane, he was aware, but he felt the same certainty he had when outrunning Coutelle and the GOONs, realizing where he had to go.

He also felt the same terror, and settling in was a little challenging.

It wasn’t the big things, like how he’d left his friends and family and any chance for career advancement or a decent retirement fund. Except for the occasional burst of panic, he had accepted these things. It was the day-to-day irregularities that really grated.

Like how the variety of the general store resembled that of the nineteenth century. Or how you could be walking around, nothing but blue skies, and then in a second you were stung and blinded by a sudden sandstorm. Or the wildlife, and their complete lack of respect for personal boundaries.

Ray was exhausted. Yesterday had been payday, and he and the rest of the tribal PD had spent all night breaking up liquor-fueled brawls and scaring kids off the streets before they got into too much trouble. Add into that Crow Horse’s rigorous _making Ray into a real Indian_ campaign, which mostly involved dragging Ray all over the rez and thrusting him into situations that would make him look foolish, and it was a miracle he had even been able to drag himself out of bed.

Ray sleepwalked to the shower. He stripped along the way, letting his clothes fall behind him like breadcrumbs marking his path. Laundry later. Shower now. And then coffee. Wait. Maybe he should have done that the other way around. Too late, though; Crow Horse wouldn’t let him coming to breakfast naked go without comment, and Ray was way too tired to get dressed again. Coffee later, then.

Ray pulled back the shower curtain, and then jumped back so far he hit the sink, a yelp tearing from his throat. Something black, and noisy—the unnerving timpani of the air right by your ear being disturbed—rushed at his face. Ray’s heart pounded, and he reached to his bare hip for his gun—habit, but still embarrassing. He flattened himself against the sink and tried to catch the manic, flapping thing still for long enough to identify it.

The door pushed open, and Crow Horse stuck his head in.

“What the hell are you doing in here? Are you okay?”

Ray motioned to the black blur rocketing around the room.

“What the fuck is that?”

Crow Horse frowned. “Come on outta there.”

Ray crept along the walls until he could slip out the door. Crow Horse closed it behind him, and bent to retrieve a discarded item of Ray’s clothing from the floor.

“That’s a bat, Ray. Musta left the window open,” Crow Horse said, handing Ray his shorts. “Here, unless you wanna greet the thing as God made you.”

Ray climbed into his shorts. “Does it have diseases?”

Crow Horse shrugged. “What am I, a vet? Get something big and flat.”

Armed with a newspaper and a cookie sheet, Ray and Crow Horse managed to shoo the bat back through the window.

“Bet you’re awake now, aren’cha?” Crow Horse said, and chuckled.

Ray’s heart rate was beginning to return to normal. Crow Horse patted him on the shoulder, and then went back to the kitchen.

Ray checked every corner of the bathroom for more wildlife before he climbed into the tub for his shower. He felt almost calm now, the shock bleeding out in a rush. Ray stood under the torrent of hot water, and listened to Crow Horse humming in the kitchen. He had, Ray had noticed when he’d gone for his bat-fighting weapon, been making them breakfast. Eggs. Crow Horse really wasn’t much of a cook, but he had to be as tired as Ray was, and he was making them breakfast.

Moving to the reservation was like moving to another planet. Ray felt the same terror as back at the stronghold, but, just like back at the stronghold, Crow Horse was with him, and that gave him the courage to follow his sword.

***

“Begging you. I am _begging_ you, Walter.”

Crow Horse shook his head. “We don’t have money for a washing machine, and we don’t need one, besides.”

Ray snorted. “No, our current system is working out great.”

They were kneeling before the bathtub, scrubbing their laundry in the sudsy water filling it, the same way people had done in rivers for centuries. You know, the centuries before indoor plumbing. Ray was wearing sweats, though he had removed his shirt in concession to the August heat. Crow Horse was wearing the loathed suit he only drug out for funerals, collar open and shirtsleeves rolled up. They had let the laundry go too long again, like they always did, because the thought of spending the afternoon washing things by hand was so odious.

“I’ve got savings,” Ray said.

Such was his desperation; he already knew Crow Horse’s reaction. It would be the same as when he had suggested they get a joint bank account, or the time—once that idea had crashed and burned—he had offered to put up half the money Crow Horse sent to his parents every month.

Crow Horse glared at him. “Don’t need you flashing your trust fund.”

“Fuck you. I don’t have a trust fund; I have a savings account—”

“From your cushy Fed job, one’a them perks we’ve only just heard of here on our backwater, nineteenth century—”

Ray felt a flush burn up his neck, moving at exactly the same pace as the fury rushing through his veins.

“Fuck. You.”

Ray ground his teeth, and focused intently on his wash. Crow Horse sat back on his heels, watched Ray’s taut jaw working.

“I mean, next you’ll want a cuisinart or a cappuccino machine or some damn thing,” Crow Horse said conversationally. “You’ll swap the truck for some slick Italian job, trade poor Jimmy in on some fancy poodle with pompons on its hoity ass—”

Ray found himself smiling, despite himself. He worked on getting an engine grease stain out of what had previously been his best pair of jeans; he worked on maintaining his irritation with Crow Horse.

“—and me,” Crow Horse continued, “I imagine I’ll be traded for some eighteen year old _GQ_ model with a hundred dollar haircut—”

Ray lost hold of his annoyance; it floated away like an errant balloon. He laughed, and splashed a small tidal wave of soapy water in Crow Horse’s general direction.

Crow Horse frowned thoughtfully at the impromptu washtub.

“Washing machine, huh?”

“And a dryer,” Ray said. “But I promise not to get a poodle.”

“What about the _GQ_ model?”

“We’ll see.”

***

Ray had never had a dog growing up. Life with his father had been too chaotic for the necessary order; life with his stepfather had been too orderly for the inherent chaos. He had never been really caught up in the idea, though; after his father died, Ray’s mother had enrolled him in all kinds of activities to keep him engaged, and after a while being busy was just habit.

Of course, idleness was a fact of life on the rez. Ray had not meant to adopt Jimmy—it had just happened—but it was strangely appropriate for the time and place he found himself in. Things took longer out west, or maybe the time was just different—bigger, stretched out like taffy. A minute on the rez had a lot more elbowroom. It took hours to drive anywhere, and all day to do the laundry. Even with work, and spending time with Crow Horse, and all the social hoops Crow Horse set up for him, and learning new customs and a new language, Ray found himself with a lot of spare time on his hands. So maybe Jimmy was serendipitous. But that didn’t mean Ray was prepared for all that taking in a pet entailed.

“I told you the damn dog had fleas.”

Ray waved Crow Horse away; he was affecting his concentration. He squinted at the type on the box of flea powder, which seemed to be growing smaller the longer he looked at it.

“I went to college,” he said finally. “Top of my class at Quantico. Why can’t I understand this?”

“Fuck it,” Crow Horse said. “Let’s just wing it.”

Ray didn’t move, still frowning over the flea powder, until Crow Horse clapped a hand on his shoulder and physically drug him from the room.

Crow Horse lifted Jimmy—legs splayed and stiff—into the bathtub, and guarded against any escape attempts while Ray rinsed the dog down and massaged flea shampoo into his fur.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” Ray said.

Crow Horse rolled his eyes. Ray ignored him.

“It’ll be over soon,” he continued. “And then you’ll feel much better.”

“You know he can’t understand you, right?” Crow Horse said. “He’s a dog. And he’s stupid for a dog, at that.”

“He’s not stupid.”

“He’s dumber than a stump. I’ve seen him eat gravel. Prob’ly thinks it’s a miracle, whole fields of kibble just growing wild.”

Ray rinsed Jimmy, and then patted him with a towel. He looked distrustfully at the flea powder.

“Just wing it?” he said.

“Sure,” Crow Horse said. “Give it here.”

Ray handed Crow Horse the box. Crow Horse gave it a shake, ripped off the top, and dumped the contents unceremonially over Jimmy’s back.

Ray cocked his head to the side.

“Huh,” he said. “That was easy.”

And then Jimmy shook vigorously. An explosion of white powder.

They found flea powder beneath the sink and in the vents and caulking the grout for months afterward. Ray bought Jimmy a flea collar.

***

Crow Horse didn’t do anything half way. This was generally an excellent trait, but occasionally going full stream all the time had its drawbacks. Like when he had insisted the groaning truck could make it the last leg back from Rapid City no problem, mechanic nothing, like he needed some expensive professional to tell him the truck was old, and he and Ray had had to hitchhike thirty miles back to the rez.

Or yesterday, when he had ignored Ray’s assertions that maybe after a week of doubles, they should take their day off _off_ , and had instead spent the whole thing helping work the powwow, and had pulled a muscle in his back lifting a child onto a pony. Of all the ridiculous things. At least Ray was going easier on him than he would have done had their situations been reversed. A pony. Seriously, Crow Horse never would have let that go.

The hot water bottle attracted Jimmy, and Crow Horse was cranky enough already. Ray intervened gently, running Crow Horse a bath.

“It’s the middle of the goddamn day,” Crow Horse complained en route. “Also, I’m an adult.”

“The doctor said you had to keep heat on your back,” Ray said. “He said you had to relax. Would you find cuddling on the couch with Jimmy more relaxing?”

“You could throw the damn dog outside for a while.”

“I would, if I thought that would end your complaining. Sadly, history leads me to believe otherwise.”

Okay, maybe Ray wasn’t completely off the mark. The hot water did feel good on his back, and Crow Horse felt his muscles relaxing.

“Wanna bring me a beer?”

Ray frowned. “Absolutely not. The doctor said you can’t have any alcohol with your muscle relaxants.”

“Hell, who said anything about alcohol? I asked for a beer.”

“No.”

Crow Horse’s shoulders slumped, and he sank down a few inches, the water level inching up his chest. “How am I supposed to relax?”

Ray poked his tongue into his cheek.

“I got an idea,” he said finally.

Ray was usually sensible and reserved and near girlish in his attitudes toward sex. Still, he could also be surprising, and he was always damn near impossible to dissuade when he got caught on a notion. Crow Horse wasn’t sure what he was expecting—maybe some fruity classical music, or some kind of New Age meditation shit or something—but it was not for Ray to kneel at the edge of the tub, roll up his sleeves, and go to work.

Crow Horse’s eyes rolled back, and he slipped down another few inches. He felt a lot of things, but ‘relaxed’ wasn’t exactly one of them.

“Um, Ray, I don’t want to criticize your methods here—”

Ray ignored him, falling into a steady, slow tempo, the movement causing small rippling waves. Crow Horse sank down another few inches, too distracted to fight against the slick porcelain to maintain his position, but that only drove him further into Ray’s hand.

Crow Horse’s hands gripped white-knuckled at the sides of the tub. He was not relaxed. His body was filled with such tension that he felt like the transformation scene in a monster movie: unable to control his body’s reactions, changing without his consent. His spine stretched out, pushing against the slick back of the tub, and he thrust against Ray’s constant, even tempo.

“Jesus, Ray—”

The tension released, bleeding away into the water. Crow Horse’s body came back to him, the muscles butter soft. His slinky spine could not hold him up, and he sank so far beneath the water that, had his hands hooked on the tub’s lip not stopped him, he might have gone all the way under.

Ray dried his hands on Crow Horse’s towel. “Feeling better?”

Crow Horse blinked at Ray’s impossibly calm face. Then he reflected: he was so relaxed he felt like he needed to remind himself to breathe, and, even if he tried, he couldn’t feel the pain in his back.

“Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look,” Crow Horse allowed.

Ray laughed, and then he loomed over the water, hands braced on the sides of the tub, and he kissed Crow Horse.

“Well. I have my moments.”  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  



End file.
